It’s all about the words. It always was.
Only I didn’t know it at the time.
I wandered around for most of my life with a pen and a piece or two of paper. A battered journal accompanied me across Ireland. I wrote my way through the Soviet Union. I always turn to writing in the night, those small hours between midnight and dawn that seem the darkest. Before I was aware of my complex PTSD I used writing as a way to manage my demons. The slender thread of ink across a page provided a lifeline more than once.
A blog devoted to Complex PTSD. Promoting better understanding, community and recovery.
Writing about writing. This is where the other half of my efforts go.
A collection of essays written by other survivors, an anonymous platform for them to tell their stories.